


a star is born

by j_kenobi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/F, Manipulative Relationship, Mercy wants to be famous, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pharah is famous, Sad Ending, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse, Young Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, a star is born au, angela is way too nice for her own good, pharah isn't the nicest person sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 18:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_kenobi/pseuds/j_kenobi
Summary: Seasoned musician Fareeha Maine discovers -- and falls in love with -- struggling artist Angela. She has just about given up on her dream to make it big as a singer until Fareeha coaxes her into the spotlight. But even as Angela's career takes off, the personal side of their relationship is breaking down, as Fareeha fights an ongoing battle with her own internal demons.basically A Star is Born AU! cliche & dumb, i know, but i think it'll be good? ooffirst f/f story & first story in general so please be gentle ah





	1. black eyes

**Author's Note:**

> hi all!   
> so this is my first fic that i'm publishing, and my first f/f fic ever, so i'm very nervous!!  
> if you've seen a star is born you'll know what's going on, but i hope it's still good even though you might know the plot already!  
> let me know what you think!

There used to be a time when she could utilize all five senses at once. See the crowd of adoring fans, hear their screams coinciding with the pump of the bass, smell the sweat of her fellow band members, taste her own, and feel the guitar strings at her fingertips with the microphone at her lips. 

There used to be a time.

Now it’s hard to hear with that damn ringing, and everything else is a bit of a blur. She can barely tell if she’s playing the right song, but no one’s told her it’s wrong yet, so she keeps playing, hoping the notes are right and the lyrics are for the same song. Her head is starting to spin some more, and she stumbles for a moment, but it doesn’t even register in her brain. She feels a steady hand on her back, probably her bassist, and she nods, in acknowledgment or in time to the music, she’s not sure anymore. All she can really comprehend is that her hands and mouth are moving, and it’s making music that people like. 

There used to be a time. 

The stage lights go low, and she stumbles again, and her knees hit the stage floor this time. Someone’s pulling the guitar and its strap from her body, another set of arms is picking her back up on her feet. 

“Show’s over?” she slurs, too close to the microphone, and the feedback can be heard throughout the stadium, harsh; fans and stage crew alike are holding their hands to ears. 

“Yes, we’ve got to get off stage now,” someone tells her, and she decides to let them determine where her body will be moving. 

“Jesus, she’s gone completely slack. Think she passed out?” a stagehand mutters. 

“Fuck, sure hope not. Didn’t think she drank that much before the show,” another comments. Her head, hanging limp, snaps back up at the conversation. 

“I had a lot of drugs, man,” she slurs once more, and an audible huff of frustration can be heard from both stage crew members. Their conversation turns to topics besides the drunken woman they’re carrying, boring, so now is an excellent time for the world to go black, she thinks.

She wakes up to a splash of water in the face. Some of the liquid hits her nose, and she instinctively sniffs. It shoots up.  _ Bad idea, bad idea _ . She tries not to choke, and instead blinks until she can see her manager come into view. 

“What’s hanging, man?” she says, trying - and epically failing - to hide her still-prominent slur. As drunk as she is, she still understands her manager  _ hates _ when she’s drunk. 

Jack Morrison doesn’t even know what to say to his increasingly difficult 37 year old client anymore. Her alcoholism had reached a point that she was bound to make a public spectacle at some point and tarnish her own career. It was just a matter of time, and they were lucky she’d gotten this far. 

“Fareeha,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Just please go home and sleep this off. I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re in no state to have this discussion with me.”

Fareeha Amari Maine shoots off finger guns in response, completely unaware of just how disappointed her manager is. 

“You got it, boss,” she says, and begins to attempt to stumble towards the door. Jack catches her arm before she falls for the second time tonight. 

“Don’t go out. Just go  _ home _ ,” he stresses to her, and she nods too enthusiastically for his liking. In his ten years of working with Fareeha, and his five years of “working” with her alcoholism, the enthusiastic head nod after hearing orders she wouldn’t like when she was sober was always a bad sign. 

“ _ Goodnight, _ Fareeha,” he emphasizes once more that her night should be over before the car door shuts behind her, and the black car takes her away. 

“Yeah, yeah, my name is F’reeha, yeah,” she slurs, and slumps back into the leather seats. She starts to dig around in the back of the car. 

“What are you looking for, Miss Fareeha?” the driver asks her politely. She sits back up to try and focus on the driver, see if she recognizes them. 

And lo and behold, it’s Lena, her favourite driver. Lena is the one that normally has something to drink in the car, and is always willing to take Fareeha to a bar.

“Holy shiiiiiit, Lena! What’s good…y’got any bottles in here?” Fareeha slurs, and Lena frowns slightly. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Fareeha, but I don’t. We’re under strict order to keep the cars free of alcohol,” Lena apologizes, and Fareeha quirks an eyebrow. Probably a new rule from her stupid manager, to keep her from drinking. 

“Alright, Lena, that’s fine, not your fault,” Fareeha says, “Can y’take me to a bar, then?” 

“Miss Fareeha, I’m...supposed to take you straight home,” Lena says quietly. 

“Lena…” she trails, trying to figure out how best to get her way. Lena is a young and easily manipulable girl. There’s got to be a way.

“Have you made rent this month?” This is a new low, even for Fareeha, but her drug and alcohol addled mind is craving more poison. 

“No, ma’am.” It’s dead silent in the car now, and Lena won’t make eye contact with Fareeha. She knows the girl doesn’t make much driving her drunk ass around - she’s been told as much the time she got Lena liquored up a few months back. 

“How much you need to make it, Lena?” she asks, slur started to fade. She’s losing her buzz, and her body needs more. 

“500.” Fareeha rolls her eyes at this, and fumbles to find her purse. It’s on the car floor, though she doesn’t remember putting it there, or having it at all. Must have been Jack. 

_ He’ll regret doing that _ , she thought, as she flicks through bills, counting out $500. She hands it over to Lena, who gasps. 

“Miss Fareeha! I can’t take that!” she stutters, in awe at the amount of money that has suddenly appeared in front of her. 

“You can if you take me to the closest bar,” Fareeha says, and Lena closes her eyes, upset by the trade deal. She knows she’s not supposed to take Fareeha to the bars. But to be able to make rent on time this month…

“Alright. But I’m waiting outside for you, and we’re going home straight after. Got it?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I just need one drink.” 

“That’s what you said last time, Fareeha.”


	2. la vie en rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha and Angela meet.

The closest bar is highlighted with blue LED, but no signage proclaiming its name can be found. Fareeha fumbles for the door handle, desperate to get in and drink something, anything.

“Please be careful, Miss Fareeha,” Lena says, before unlocking the car, “I’ll be right out here so that we can go home.” 

“Roger that, cadet,” Fareeha says, not focused on anything but the door only a few feet away from her. Lena scrunches her face in confusion, but tries not to think too hard on it. Nothing Fareeha says ever really makes sense, especially when she’s itching for a drink. 

Fareeha sidles up to the entrance of the bar, pretending she hasn’t seen the line to get in. A man that can’t be older than 25 looks at her once, looks away, then turns to look back at her in utter disbelief. Fareeha flashes her million dollar smile and prays the man is straight. That, and her fame, normally got her in wherever she liked. 

“Are you--are you Fareeha  _ Maine _ ?” he asks excitedly, emphasizing her last name, and Fareeha knows she’s getting in with no trouble. 

“Yes, hi, can I get in, please?” she asks politely, screaming in her head that he better let her the fuck in before she kills someone for a fucking drink. He suddenly looks confused.

“You sure? I didn’t think this was your type of place,” he starts to sound nervous.

“Do you have alcohol in there?”

“Well, yes, of course-”

“Then it’s my kind of place.” The man laughs nervously at that, and gestures for her to walk in before him.

Neon lights nearly blind her as they pulse from green to purple, and she can hear someone singing. She turns to see a drag queen performing like her life depends on it. Fareeha can’t help but snort, realizing why the man was confused to let her in. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he hops behind the bar, and she orders shots like it’s her job. Unlike everyone else in her life, he doesn’t restrict her or say anything about how much she’s drinking, which feels so fucking  _ refreshing. _ Soon the alcohol is flowing nicely in her blood, and the buzz she’s been itching for is back. 

“So what, this some sort of drag bar or what?” she lazily asks the bartender, who is slowly becoming her new best friend the way he slings the shots to her with no questions. 

“Uh, yeah! It is. Every Friday,” he replies, and she nods. 

“I figured, with all the-” she trails off to wave her hand at the drag queens on stage. 

“Yeah, all are welcome here,” he says proudly, which brings a smile to her face.

“That’s good to hear, y’know some bars in this area aren’t so friendly. I’d know,” she comments, then stops, realizing her mistake.

“Y-you’d know?” Fuck.

“Yeah honey, I’m gay as fuck.” Alcohol didn’t mind outing her, it seemed like. 

Bartender Man now looks floored, and it makes Fareeha roll her eyes. 

“I don’t know your name, but if I hear that story come out - no pun intended - tomorrow, I’ll find you and fuckin’ kill ya,” she says casually, causing his eyes to widen even more. 

“Oh, no, of course! I’m so sorry, Ms. Maine, Mrs. Maine? Fareeha Maine, yeah. And my name is Lucio!” he awkwardly tries to promise to keep her secret.

The music fades, and the lights on the small stage go down, and Lucio’s eyes light up.

“Oh man, you gotta see this, my girl is so damn good, you’ll love it,” he brags proudly, and Fareeha raises her eyebrows. 

“So damn good, huh? Alright. Is this some lip syncing shit, though?”

“No, it’s all real, swear.”

Fareeha does three more shots and can’t hear the bar announce the girl’s name, but soon the lights are back on, and…

The most beautiful girl she’s ever seen comes out. 

A familiar piano intro begins, and before Fareeha can even process what song she’s hearing, the girl sings. 

Oh  _ wow _ .

She quickly notices that it’s La Vie en Rose. She thinks it’s a bit cliche, but the girl’s voice is so captivating she can ignore the song choice. The French flows so easily from her lips, and she hits every note with such perfection Fareeha is convinced she’s dreaming. 

Time is going by too fast for her to process, but suddenly the girl is standing on the bar. She looks up to see the girl, and finally can start to work through her physical details after being so thrown by her voice. 

Her blonde hair hangs loosely in waves that brush just past her shoulders. She’s wearing a black corset with black fishnet; it matches well with her pale skin. Her legs look fantastic at this angle, highlighted by the black high heels she’s wearing. Fareeha feels a sudden hit of arousal, something she hasn’t felt in years, but is still too enthralled by the girl to even process  _ that _ reaction. 

The girl is laying down on the bar now, still singing, and she’s looking at Lucio. They’re smiling as if sharing some sort of secret. She pulls a rose out of her corset, and offers it to him. He laughs and pretends to smell it, and she laughs a bit too, and continues to sing. 

_ C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie _

_ Il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie _

All of a sudden she’s turned and is looking right in Fareeha’s startled eyes - she’s certain she looks like a deer in headlights. 

Time stops. All Fareeha can see are her eyes, crystal blue - two oceans crashing into waves, frozen ice on a lake, a clear sky, sapphires in her mother’s expensive vintage jewelry, everything she’s ever found beautiful and held dear. 

For a second, Fareeha wishes she was sober, a thought she hasn’t had in five years. 

“Hello,” the girl says, and smiles a bit; all Fareeha can do is smile back and offer a small wave. She’s used to being the one that’s fawned over, but now she can’t help but feel like a schoolgirl making eye contact with her crush. 

She blinks, and the girl is back on stage, singing the final note. 

The crowd erupts into cheers, as does Fareeha, and she quickly flicks a tear from the corner of her eye that she didn’t know was there.

“Wasn’t she amazing?! Didn’t I tell you?” Lucio is screaming in her ear now, and notices the tiny tears that had gathered in her eyes.

“Are you crying? Holy shit!” he cries, despite Fareeha waving him off and denying it.

“I’m not fucking crying,” she mutters, her cheeks going red. She’s never had such an emotional and visceral reaction to  _ anything _ before, much less some girl at a bar. She feels embarrassed, and turns to find a shot glass. Whatever this feeling is, she’s not sure she likes it, and knows alcohol will take it away so she doesn’t have to deal with it. 

“Oh my God, you  _ have  _ to meet her!” he yells again, and begins pulling Fareeha through the crowd. She tries to protest, and apologizes to the strangers she’s bumping into, but before she can break free of Lucio’s grip, they’re at the door to the dressing room.

Fareeha hasn’t felt nervous for anything in almost ten years. She is very proud of this fact, and attributes her confidence to the fame she has amassed over the years from her music. 

But now? She can feel the telltale flips in her stomach that scream  _ you’re anxious _ , and she doesn’t know how to cope. The bar is so far away now, and she can feel her hand twitch in search of a glass, a bottle, something,  _ anything _ . 

Lucio, to his credit, hasn’t noticed the minor panic attack Fareeha is experiencing, and pulls her into the dressing room with no warning.

She’s now surrounded by the chatter and preparations of a dozen or so drag queens. It’s loud and a bit of a sensory overload, and Fareeha wants to sink into the floor. She’s too scared, she doesn’t think she can do it. And she’s supposed to be able to handle anything that comes her way. 

When the drag queens take notice of the newcomer in their dressing room, they pounce on Fareeha like vultures on a carcass.

“Oh my God, you’re Fareeha Maine!”

“Look, it’s  _ Fareeha Main _ e!”

“Can we take a picture?”  
“Can you sign my titties?!” The last one threw Fareeha for a loop, and she tilted her head around, searching for Lucio in a bit of a panic. 

“Ladies, she’s not here for you, she’s here for our little superstar,” an arm that she can only assume is Lucio’s comes into the crowd that’s gathered around her, and she takes it graciously. He pulls her forward again, and suddenly she’s face to face with  _ the girl _ . 

She has the look of recognition, which Fareeha is accustomed to, but she raises an eyebrow in confusion. 

“Angela, this is my friend Fareeha Maine,” Lucio says proudly. 

Angela can’t help but raise a perfectly painted eyebrow at Fareeha. Why was Fareeha  _ Maine _ in her dressing room? She looked like she’s just come from a concert, with her leather jacket and combat boots. Angela can’t help but admit she thinks the famous singer is beautiful, with her dark hair, tanned skin, and the slick wadjet under her right eye. She blushes a bit, realizing how scantily dressed she is, and smiles up at the woman. 

“Hi, I’m Angela,” she sticks out a hand to Fareeha, who takes it softly and shakes her hand ever so slowly - Angela can’t tell if she’s drunk or if it’s on purpose. 

She’s suddenly very aware that Lucio and the other queens have left the dressing room, leaving her and Fareeha.

“Your voice, uh, holy shit,” Fareeha says bluntly, with a bit of a slur, and Angela can’t help but laugh a bit.

“Thanks. Yours is pretty good, too,” she teases lightly, not expected Fareeha to blush so deeply. 

_ Is she gay? Oh my God. There’s no way Fareeha Maine is gay. I’d die.  _

“So...Fareeha Maine,” Angela continues, “What are you doing here?”

Fareeha barks out a laugh that startles Angela. 

“Love that when you’re famous, all of a sudden, your last name fuckin’ matters for no fuckin’ reason,” she slurs, and Angela doesn’t know how to react. 

“I’m...sorry? What would you like me to call you?” she apologizes. 

“Mmm-just F’reeha is fine.” Fareeha doesn’t know how to control her voice. She has enough awareness to know she sounds like a complete drunk, but Angela just giggles, that little laugh that she fucking  _ loves _ .

“Alright,  _ F’reeha _ it is,” Angela says, slurring her name on purpose. 

Fareeha would never tell anyone, but hearing Angela slur it like that really  _ did something to her.  _

“What are you doing here?” the question brings Fareeha back down to Earth. 

“I, uh…” Why  _ was  _ she here?

“I came to get a drink, met your friend out there, listened to ya, sounded damn great, he brought me back here,” she explains quickly, and Angela nods in understanding. 

“What brings you to the area?” she asks, and Fareeha fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“So many goddamn questions, sweetheart. Had a concert.”  _ Shit, she did not mean to say it like that. _

Now Angela is the one to blush. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I’m what they call ‘naturally inquisitive’,” she says, using air quotes. She’s kicking herself for asking a celebrity so many dumb questions, but she also likes being called sweetheart more than she should. 

“S’alright. Listen, y’wanna come get a drink with me? I know a place ‘round here,” Fareeha asks, praying she doesn’t sound too desperate. Although she’s slurring more than usual, she chalks it up to her nervousness around Angela, and is starting to need another drink, if not just to calm her fucking nerves. 

Angela balks at the question. Her mind has been hyper-analyzing the entire situation since Fareeha walked in, and it decided now was the perfect time to remind her that Fareeha is 37, and she is 25. That logical part of her brain is screaming  _ no, do not go anywhere with this washed up alcoholic _ . 

Fareeha notices that Angela is hesitating. She starts to grab at straws. 

“I’m sorry, that was way too fuckin’ forward. Shit, I know I’ve some to drink, but you’re real fuckin’ pretty and that  _ voice _ of yours sweetheart, goddamn. I have a driver, so you’d be safe, and I’d take ya home right after. I don’t even have t’drink if you don’t want me to, I just wanna get t’know you better,” she rambles, cringing after every single word. She knows how bad it sounds, asking such a young looking girl to go out with her. 

And Angela knows how bad it sounds, too.

But she called her  _ pretty _ , and that  _ voice of hers, sweetheart, goddamn _ …

“Okay, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for checking out my work, i really appreciate it :)   
> i should post the next chapter tomorrow at some point :D

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this chapter!  
> i'll try to keep some sort of consistent posting schedule - when i have a specific schedule i'll let you guys know!  
> thanks for checking out my work, it means a lot :)


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